Modern Friendship
by Blackberry Avar
Summary: The Night Furies died. There was no way around it. There were no more; gone. The only memento that remained of this enigmatic species was one of their eggs. Only one. It was decided to bury the thing, keep it safe in a remote place until they could get another; that never happened. A hundred years later it had been forgotten, lost to history, until somewhere, someday, it was found.
1. Chapter 1

A long long time ago, in a land far far away, a funeral bell tolled, it's grim yet musical clangs floating through the air and bouncing off the many hills, making the town vibrate lightly, so that small pebbles jumped into the air like tiny wisps of sand, though they were weighed down by the downpour that was native there.

Almost the entire population of Berk, and many others besides, was crammed into the church, even watching through the windows, which had been replaced with clear glass for the event, teetering on hastily constructed scaffolds that swayed in the wind like flowers stuck in a gale, top heavy from the men and women stood atop them, despite the rain. A few pace around nervously, though not many enjoy the space to do so. Even the dragons look downcast, and many have their noses in the mud, disinterested in any material belongings, suffering beyond what they can communicate to their riders.

It is the year 1492, and Columbus has just left for the Indies. But a far less momentous occasion is occurring here, underneath the Europeans very noses. Now the bell stops, and the people of the town also quiet, their omniscient hum quieting until total silence reigns supreme in the city of a few thousand people.

In the crowd, jammed onto the inside balcony is a man named Parthosol. His eyes are misty, and as he looks around he sees that he is not alone. Still, he wipes his eyes of the rapidly forming tears, hoping to stem their rising tide. A man ascends the pulpit in black robes of mourning, walking slowly, as if weighed down by some unseen burden. He too, sheds tears, though he hides them better than most. He puts on his reading glasses and brings out a few papers, rapping them on the wooden desk.

As the people watch, he begins to speak, his voice wavering with a perceptible tremor that shakes his jaw.

"People of the Edge! I am sure that many of you have heard of the great tragedy that has befallen us. It is the reason we are gathered here today. The last of the great line of Night Furies has perished. She lived a long and happy life. It is over now." He paused for effect, then continued.

"Let us not point fingers at each other, blaming ourselves for the events of the past, but remember to stand in solidarity so that we may face the future, as one. Today we remember our grand history, and the man who made it all happen. For those who do not remember, or for those who have forgotten, that man was known by the name of Hiccup Haddock."

Parthosol remembered those times fondly. His family had a special connection to that part of history, and his father had always gathered his children around the warm fire after dinner to tell them stories of the old days. That didn't make it any less painful for him.

"There was not always a time when Haddock was great. Once the village outcast and a source of dishonor to his father, the chief at the time, he always sought to prove himself amongst his fellows. Ridiculed and ignored, one can only imagine his life, even as the heir. Wanting to earn a place in his very home, he took to smithing, where he quickly became a prodigy. But even that was not enough for his goals. He became an inventor, a tinkerer in all things. Many of the items we use in our daily lives were conceived by him, and him alone. Even the printer was originally his idea." Everyone stole a glance at their bibles.

"Back in those days, warfare between humans and dragons was the norm." said the pastor, not stopping for the many children whose eyes bulged.

"Without the strength or skill to kill these majestic animals, he turned to other things. Mainly, weapons of his own design, many of which are still revolutionary today. Unfortunately, whether due to bad materials or bad luck, many of them failed in use or tests, damaging the nearby property and earning him a bad name. Until one night." Nobody moved, all glued to the story that was being told them, despite many having heard it many times before as part of their lessons.

"The moon was blotted out by the clouds which covered the sky, while on the ground a dragon raid was being fought fiercely, perhaps over the very ground on which we now stand. It was on that night that he waited on the top of one of the many hills that dot the country with one of his inventions, a bola launcher he had built himself. A hundred dragons ravaged the village below him, but he did not loose his weapon. Instead, he waited for one target. The legendary Night Fury. Several towers were destroyed by a black shadow whizzing among them like a dart, but still he did not fire, waiting for the perfect shot." The pastor looked around, assuring himself that his audience was still captivated.

"Then, a purple ball crashed into one of the catapults and once again the evasive dragon flew past, only this time Haddock was ready. Loosing the bola kicked him back, and so he could only hear the tell -tale scream of a downed dragon. Legend has it that it went down near Raven Point, close by to here in fact. When he told the village, no one believed it, thinking that surely he must have been wrong. Dejected, Hiccup combed the forests for days trying to find the downed dragon, but found nothing. Then, as he was about to give up, he came across it's path, the trees broken and bent where it had crashed among the trees. Intending to kill it, for things were different back then, he brought out his knife and prepared to stab the dragon with all his might, believing that if he did he might find status among his comrades." Many involuntarily covered their mouths, not believing that anyone could do such a thing.

"However." the pastor continued, seeing the distressed faces, "This was in the middle of a three-hundred year long war, and thus such behavior can be justified." He went on. "But he could not. Something struck him about this particular dragon, and he dropped his dagger in confusion, not knowing what to do. Then, in a sudden flash of inspiration, or insanity depending on your point of view, he cut it loose. The rest, as they say, is history. He even named his dragon Toothless." Nervous laughs were shared by all, but they were forced and quickly died down, disarmed by the general mood.

"Many great feats were performed by the two, including their most notable accomplishment, the end of the dragon wars and the beginning of the Age of Enlightenment. There were many other great things that Hiccup did, but there is not yet time to list them all, for he was the most advanced man of his day." The pastor was now beginning to warm up a little, but it was not to be.

"But when he died, others had to step up to take his place. And while all of them were great in their own right at first, none could compare to Hiccup, who alone swayed the edge to his way of thinking and established a kingdom that lives on in his honor. But after a time, the kings after him came to become corrupt, and they mismanaged numerous affairs, including the infamous Midway disaster." Everyone who had learned even an inkling of history paused, and strained their ears to listen (more on that later), including Parthosol.

"On that day, March 15th,,, a day to be remembered forevermore, came the dwindling of the Night Fury as a race, for many of them died there in an enormous explosion that scorched most of the surrounding land. This reduced much of the population to inbreeding, causing many problems that to this day could not be weeded out. And it was of one of these failures that the last of these great dragons, Amaranth, was consumed by, and she eventually fell to a defect of her heart." There was a pregnant pause as the speaker inhaled deeply.

"Let us revere in a moment of silence for the deceased, so that we may reflect upon them and remember their ways."

Parthosol bowed his head and folded his fingers between themselves, a position he had always found comforting. All across the room men and women did the same, even the normally rowdy children fell silent, stricken by the gravity of the people around them. For minutes no one so much as coughed, shifting uneasily but remaining quiet.

Before the pulpit an enormous casket languished, and Parthosol focused on it, hoping to find solace there, but only bringing himself more grief, he forced himself to look away. Finally the pastor spoke again.

"And now it is time to bring the bard. He is more qualified to recount these histories than I." said the pastor. He walked off the pulpit with more of a spring in his step, and a few people clapped half-heartedly.

Another man stepped out, but instead of the banjo he would usually carry for weddings, over his arm was slung a French violin that sung tartly as it leaped into his hands. The music rose and fell with the tone of it's player, while many of the adults assumed a dreamy… er, expression.

And while histories flowed past the ears of many, the men on the balcony all listened closely, for they would play a part in the events to come, Parthosol not being the least of them. They knew what many of the others did not, and while the bard sang on, some began to whisper among themselves and sip out of their tiny cups, those which had been dusted out of the cellars, their delicate engravings speaking to a bygone era.

Soon the music hit a new low, and suddenly nobody felt much like wine. They had picked a good man for the job, and he did his work well. Now the violin wound down, and with one final flourish, the minstrel bowed and hopped away, bidding leave for the pastor to return and finish his speech. After another hour of reminiscing and a blessing, followed by some grim refreshments, the funeral ended. Mostly.

As the last men filed past the lifeless corpse of a once great dragon, several men came to take it away. Parthosol was one of the lucky, or unlucky, few. The casket was discreetly dragged outside, and loaded into a cart to be taken away. But not to be buried. This was the dragons' funeral, for several Nadders fell in line as the horses trotted on, seemingly unfazed by the giant beasts that walked alongside them, stepping in rhythm together, one on each side.

It was evening, and the rainclouds had receded, forming beautiful yellow and orange stripes that raced along the sky, mixed in with only a tinge of pink along the western edges near the sea, where a dazzling line of sunlight shone over the mute blues of the northern oceans. Acrosst town the buildings radiated beauty to rival the finest gemstones, and the smell of the rain had receded, leaving the air cool and crisp for any who ventured outside.

Now the wagon reached the coast, and several men opened the box and took out the Night Fury, laying it on the rocky ground with the help of the Nadders accompanying them. From various rocks and ledges other dragons watched, patiently waiting for the humans to leave. As the driver encouraged the horses to turn around, Parthosol saw a flock of them descend upon the corpse, yet they did not come near, instead standing at a distance, doing something he could not see or hear.

Sometimes the things they did were very strange, he thought, as the horses rounded the bend and the dragons disappeared from sight, shielded by a mound of grass. But, there were other matters to attend to, and he did not dwell on what he had seen for long.

One week later. Berk. Hofferson Hall. The south parlor.

A bevy of chairs stood on the old floor, arranged around a table. Light streamed in through a crack in the florally patterned shades, which looked misplaced in their current situation, though they usually served their purpose well enough. It was a sunny day outside, and some of the morning cheer still managed to slip through, making the walls speckle with happiness.

Candles were spread around the room, their thimbles serving to stabilize them and catch any dripping wax, even if they were not lit. There was a large table in the middle, covered with a gray cloth that drooped evenly over the edges, while scrolls and even a few papers were scattered around the surface.

The pastor of the church sat at the end chair, as the guest of honor, while the king presided over all, having just arrived from the capital over the issue. Parthosol and a few others were strung out in their respective chairs, eyes flickering between their scrolls and the men around them while the people outside bustled.

What were they talking about? The last Night Fury egg, of course.

"And that is why we must incubate it now, before it is too late and the egg becomes infertile!" That was one of the men from the hatchery. Longlock was his name, and his impatience was beginning to get the better of him as the meeting dragged on.

"And what of his mother? (they could determine gender in the egg)" asked Parthosol, always the voice of infuriating reason. "Or even a mate. No wild Night Furies have been found in decades, and none are likely to be found now. We have searched the world for them, yet there are naught but bones to be had."

"Dragons live for a longer time than you'd think, Parth." Longlock shot back.

"And yet not long enough, I fear. We must take no chances, for the essence of a very species lies in our hands, it's survival entirely determined by our choices. Redouble the search efforts, and let the egg lie until we are successful, unless another way becomes open to us."

"And how long will that take? I believe that we must act now, or we stand the chance of losing our grip forever."

"We may, or we may not. Eggs can remain viable for a long time, if I am not mistaken. Something that you should know of all people." Parthosol could see a few nodding to his logic, although many more were on the brink of being inflamed by Longlock. He had to cool them down, before they decided to do anything hasty, while not appearing to become overly antagonistic in the eyes of his fellows, especially the king.

"I still vote for action. Too long have we languished inside our safe halls, ignoring the world around us. Must needs it take such great issues like this to find our own course?"

"Perhaps. I am not one for such risky ways, yet this argument seems better than most. Might it be possible to accomplish both ends at once? For we must choose a path. In that I agree with Longlock. For many times we have failed to do what was necessary, and so lost touch with reality, often with disastrous consequences, as any in this room can attest to."

Longlock gave the smallest hint of a grin. He was winning them over, even if it was only gradual.

"Then what path shall we take?" he began, building up to a crescendo "In what way is it possible to achieve our goals? Must we fight, or will we stand together? There is a solution to our problems, as there always has been. We must only see what is in front of our very eyes to find it. I propose a compromise with what Parthosol and his friends have to say, whatever it may be." Longlock sat back, waiting for the others to speak.

Parthosol mulled things over for a minute before he said anything, creating a small lapse in the conversation as he thought about what he should convey to his audience.

"It is of utmost importance that no one besides ourselves learn of the last Night Fury egg. Such a treasure would be tempting to even the most honorable men of the Edge, much less a thug. That's number one. Tell me: is there any way that an embryo can be preserved? A safe place must be found for it, and then, and only then, can we consider finding a mate for the future dragon. The safety of the egg is our largest priority, in my mind."

The king rapped his fingers on the tablecloth while Longlock contemplated, looking annoyed at the interruption but not daring to ask him to stop. Many became thoughtful, and a few assumed a far away look in their eyes.

"There are ways to preserve embryos, yes, but they are difficult. It would have to be cold year round for the egg not to hatch, and yet not too cold, for the fluids must not freeze. The search for a wild Night Fury is already underway, but I see your reasoning there. With a few changes this might actually work."

"What changes?" asked Parthosol, already in a better mood.

"We'll talk about it."

They all chuckled.

One Month Later. Iceland.

A carrack appeared over the glittering horizon, it's white sails spread wide over the shallowing sea. The Edge flag flew at the mainmast, and on the prow stood Parthosol, smiling as the cool spray washed over his jacket, while his sword was sheathed in a special oilcloth that shone with the setting sun's light.

As the ship heaved to and drew in it's sails, three boats were dropped into the water, one carrying a large box and the others supplies. Parth watched as they went ashore, with Longlock in the lead, steering the oarsmen to a small fjord hidden within the tall mountains that were covered with a fine coat of snow, a few rocks protruding from them at intervals.

In the valleys the vibrant green grass covered ethereal forest floors, growing beneath mossy stones that probably hadn't shifted in a thousand years, while birds chirped and chittered during the short summer season rush. An eagle floated high above the ground, propelled by a rising thermal from a rocky patch of ground.

Iceland was a bit of a misnomer.

Parthosol watched the boats become distant brown specks on the horizon, waving slowly as they went, then turned and walked to the poop. He was getting a shave.

For two weeks there had been only been enough fresh water in the scuttle to drink, at least according to the quartermaster, so there had been no washing for the bedraggled crew. Now that they had reached land, however, the barrels had been opened and everyone was taking as much as they wanted. Parthosol had a bad habit of always taking off his mustache, and the bristling hair tickling his nose had infuriated him on the trip. He hurried his step, hoping that they hadn't used all of his future shaving cream.

On the shore, Longlock had just set up camp with his men, keeping order and readying the supplies for the long climb up the mountain the next day. In his personal chest were two very special documents, both for the lord of the province, Avalon.

After they were done with their… mission, they would head to the nearest port on the other side of the hills, where their ship would be waiting for them.

As it was, they would wait here for the night; Fish had already been caught, and everyone was settling in to the new regime after so long at sea, many taking deep breaths to enjoy the flowery Icelandic air.

A fire was built, and all gathered around the fire to tell stories. The captain listened, his mind far away and yet still focused, caring not for the raucous jokes and queries of the others. Some of the younger ones tried to poke fun at him, but something about him turned them away, and they all went back to eating their fish with their comrades.

Dawn opened fresh, with the mountains glowing bright orange as the sun peeped over their crests. Soon Longlock had woken his best runner and handed him the papers. Within five minutes, the boy had become only a speck on the white, white slopes curving high above the valley.

Now for his real business here; the egg, though he told no one about it. The official story was that they were making a memorial, and a special stone had been brought ashore for just that purpose. An hour later their grub had been served, and everyone dug in for the march ahead, their pickaxes at the ready (permafrost).

Everyone stretched, and then they were on their way.

Multiple glades dotted their path, a worn out trail used by the shepherds to drive their sheep, and hoof marks still could be seen imprinted on the ground, for it did not rain often here, the plants instead being watered by the mountain streams running merrily down from their glaciers. A few birds watched the procession from above, and below them deer flitted away noiselessly, while mice skittered around on the forest floor, as they always did on mornings like these.

The sound of water bubbling from around a bend in the path hastened their footsteps, and indeed, a babbling brook ran acrosst their path, clear as the air itself. Longlock called a general halt, and soon all were on their knees, sipping from the water, or if they were more greedy, gulping it down hastily. After a few minutes everyone had had their fill, and they continued on, the path ever rising until it leveled on a plateau high above the water of the fjord.

The men did not wonder, for many of them had ridden dragons before, perhaps the only complaint was that they hadn't brought along a Gronckle or so to help with the haul.

Golden rays streaked from above them and cast shadows upon the water, which rippled gently with the breeze that caressed it's surface, making eddies spin left and right from the center of the lake. Dew fell gently from the leaves as they wavered, and the men let their mouths hang open, half-seriously trying to catch some of the water that was mysteriously falling from the sky.

The joking stopped an hour in however, and they all settled in for their long trip underneath icy cold mountains and above sunlit vales filled with wildflowers and sweet smelling grasses. The chill melted away, and the last of the hoarfrost evaporated, leaving small droplets to trickle down the trees, pooling in small chinks that ran across the bark in wavy lines seemingly carved when the world began, so ancient were they.

They walked on, their shoulders beginning to ache and jostle from the weight slung over them, yet still Longlock carried on. The men's footsteps grew heavy, and their feet tread like irons over the moist ground. It was midday now, and the sun was shining upon their backs, warming them until they glowed and their skin turned brown, even underneath their shirts, which clung to their arms with a sticky zeal.

Finally there was a general halt, and the tools which they had been carrying were set down on the ground while their owners stretched out joyously.

They had stopped next to two trees that were alone in a little glade; one was an oak tree, and one an elm. And after a small rest, they began to dig. Dirt piled up on both sides of the men as they sang dirty ditties (the contents of which I am not at liberty to disclose). Soon the dirt began to harden, and the workers didn't miss a beat, switching to their pickaxes, heaved easily to them from the top of the hole, which was now almost five feet deep.

The box was carried over, and lowered carefully into the hole with ropes, tied around the casing with a double knot, just to make sure. The permafrosted soil and rock was shoveled back in, and the dirt carefully smoothed, to the point of new turf being transplanted there. Then the false gravestone was set, and their work finished, the party began the long journey down the mountain, lighter by one Night Fury egg, though they did not know it.

A not so long time ago, in a land far far away…

 **A/N Did you like it?**

 **Edit. Something with the lines between the different sections went wrong. I'm not sure why. Hmm.**


	2. A Chapter Named Two

**AN:**

 **IDK why I even bothered to write this. Probably because I'm really, really, really bored even though I've only just written. And by the way, I'm changing the name of this fic. It will no longer be 'Span The Galaxies' and will be changed to 'Modern Friendships'. Yes, I am only updating this now.**

 **And keep in mind that the first chapter and a good part of the first bit of the second were written over a year ago, back when I had next to no experience with writing and was just getting into it.**

* * *

 **Sunday.**

Sam hated jet lag. Here they were, two Americans looking to go skiing in Iceland – who did that in Iceland anyway? - his odd, sometimes eccentric uncle Henry and himself. They would've gone to Europe and the Alps, but supposedly it was too expensive, even though his uncle was filthy rich.

Well, maybe not filthy rich, since Sam didn't know how much money he'd got, but he was rich enough to shell out seven-hundred grand for a nice house on twenty acres of property, and that was just the house.

He was rich, that was all that mattered.

Here they were, ready to hit the slopes – or Henry was, because Sam was running on nine hours of sleep in the last twenty-four, and the fact that the sun had risen at his equivalent of three in the morning hadn't helped things.

He didn't know why he was here, why his parents had agreed to let Henry take him.

"It's a chance to see the world," said his father.

"Lots of culture, you know?" said his mother.

Sam wasn't interested in culture or seeing the world. The world worth seeing didn't get much farther than fifty miles from his house. Anywhere else took too much effort to get to and was too underwhelming for the bother, anyway. Especially when seeing the world meant waking up with jetlag.

His uncle, on the other hand was chipper and energetic this morning. Naturally.

"So, son, ready to go?"

Sam groaned.

"Five more hours. Please?"

"A productive man wakes up early and gets the most out of his day."

"But I'm a teenager."

"Where do you think they get the habit?"

"Fine," said Sam, grunted, and then sat up. It was winter, and outside the temperature was probably a hundred below and threatening to turn everyone walking the streets into a popsicle, and winds blowing ice particles into people's faces and weathering them to leather till they looked fifty and were really twenty-five. He looked outside, saw the neon hotel sign in the parking lot that read 'Welcome to Reykjavik: temperature -2 Celsius, 26 Fahrenheit.'

So much for the cold weather, though it was dark outside yet, the presence of the arctic sun marked only by a blue glow that promised to turn yellow in about five hours.

"Can't get your bag if you don't get out of bed," said Henry. He was already fully dressed, wearing a checkered blue-gray business button-up turtleneck sweater over his customary white polo.

"You have no clue when it comes to fashion," said Sam. "No clue."

So this was why his uncle wasn't married.

"It's good enough for me," said Henry.

Sam got out from under the covers as slowly as he could, treasuring the warmth. The hotel heater would've been nice, if his uncle hadn't set it on high, and the breeze cooled him more than the hot air did. He opened his suitcase; it swung open and rattled his uncle's roller bag with a light bump of the lid.

"Careful," said Henry. He pulled it out of the way, quickly but gingerly with his left hand.

"Fragile?" asked Sam, putting on a matching pair of black socks, blue jeans and a nice gray sweater, probably wool, only it was a kind of wool that wasn't itchy. Magic.

"In a way, yes."

"I didn't hear any bottles or anything."

"No, something different. Enjoying the clothing we got?"

"Yeah," said Sam. The sweater alone had probably cost more than his beat-up gym shoes. Well, at least they'd been clean when he'd bought 'em.

He looked outside, saw something odd. "There's a man out there. Jogging. Wearing shorts. Going past snow drifts… crazy people."

"You see men like that in the states," said Henry. "Looks like a good way to burn energy."

And he sounded like he wanted to do that himself.

"Mom says you need to eat more. You're a skinny stick," said Sam.

Henry didn't contest that. He checked his watch, then got his roller bag. Though he was used to nice things, Sam noted, he traveled light.

"What time is it?"

"Seven after midnight," said Henry. Of course he'd adjusted his watch. "We've got to catch our ride."

Sam grabbed his backpack and they left.

* * *

"We could've rented our own car, right?" asked Sam, hands in his pockets as they waited at the bus station, two islands in a flowing crowd. "We don't have to be waiting out here in this cold, right? Range Rover woulda been nice."

"Not for a fifteen minute drive to the airport," said Henry. "That'd be a waste of money."

"On the bus it's going to take three hours," grumbled Sam. "What with all the stops."

"It never takes that long," said Henry, sure of himself.

"You've been here before?" asked Sam, looking up at his taller, green-eyed and dark-haired uncle.

"All the time," said Henry, and he ruffled Sam's straw hair.

It turned out that more people were going into Reykjavik than leaving it. The bus arrived on time, and got to the airport on time, and it was only on the bus that Henry trusted himself to look at his blackberry phone. He dialed a number, made a call.

"Hello? Yes, yes. That works. My plane leaves soon but I can catch you there… That's bad news… Thunderhead sounds alright… bringing along a guest… see you soon… take care… bye."

"Citigroup's slashed its dividend," he said.

Citigroup? Dividend?

"Why are you talking about an American bank, when we're in Iceland?"

"Because it's interesting," said his uncle. Leave it to Henry to think financial statements were interesting. "And because I used to be invested in them."

That told Sam everything and nothing. He put his hands in his pockets again and tried to catch some sleep. And as soon as the vibration of the engine had him drifting off, it stopped, and Henry shook him, because it was time to disembark.

"Are we going north yet?" asked Sam, shaking himself awake.

"Not right now," said Henry, picking up the roller bag and hopping off the step of the bus door. "I'm waiting for someone."

Well, Sam thought later, reclining in the comfortable booth seat across from his uncle in the Thunderhead cafe, the trip wasn't all bad. The air was nice and the furniture was nicer, and the hot chocolate was the best of all. The place had a mixed feel, as if the owners had wanted it to be quaintly Icelandic, what with the dragon's heads embossed on the trim, and beside them the giants and little people, living in small rock castles.

"What are those?" asked Sam, pointing to the small men.

"Elves and Huldufolk. Tiny beings from their myths."

"Ah."

It had that feel, but then on top of that it seemed to have been recently Westernized, with American-style menus and saltshakers and french fries, if you wanted some, on sale for five bucks, overpriced because of the financial boom and because, as Sam looked around, this was a place where well-to-do people went, bankers with suits and ties and smiling faces and badges under their pen-pockets that promised cheap credit. Yeah, it was American-style alright, even if those bankers didn't look like your stereotypical baseball-cap wearing football cheering wife-and-two-kids mid-westerner.

"Food's expensive," said Sam, looking at the menu, which was in English and a language his uncle had told him was called Islenska. Sam just thought of it as Norse.

"They can pay for it," said Henry. "Who knows how much longer." And he looked at his phone again and Sam caught the time: February something-something two-thousand and eight, a Monday, and just after the weekend.

"This is more than just a skiing trip," said Sam.

"It's also a business trip," said Henry.

"I knew it. What next? Business while skiing?"

"Pretty fun, actually."

Only Henry.

Sam finished his hot chocolate, took a look at the french fries (five bucks!), decided he wasn't all that hungry for shellfish, fish, barnacles, or any seafood, really, put his elbow on the table and his hand to prop up his chin and snoozed, just like he did at school when he could get away with it. Their plane left in an hour, heading off to Icelandic-sounding namey mcname, and them on it, but until that happened he was free to catch up on some shut-eye.

"Morning, Eric," came Henry's voice.

Oh, come on!

"Good morning, Mr. Hysesson," came another's.

"Same to you. I swear we go through this every time..." said Henry, and he trailed off. Sam looked up and saw a man standing next to him, almost as tall as his uncle, and stouter. This must be the Eric Henry was talking to. He had straw hair, like Sam, though with a reddish tinge, and he was wearing a navy blue suit with a red tie and a badge below his pen-pocket that said Landsbanki, with no english translation to go with it.

"We do, yeah," said Eric. "And this is?"

"Sam, my nephew."

"Not much family resemblance," said Eric, noting Sam's golden hair and blue eyes and average-sized limbs and average-sized everything, really, and Sam huffed.

"Different side of the family. He's a Lockhart."

"How old are you, Sam Lockhartsson?" asked Eric. He held out his hand for a handshake, and Sam took it with both of his, though they still looked tiny compared to the banker's. At least, Sam assumed he was a banker. Maybe he was a frontman or something.

"Fifteen, going on sixteen," said Sam, comfortable with the familiar direction the conversation was heading in.

"Can you come over to my side?" asked Henry, just before Eric gave himself a seat on Sam's half, boxing him where he sat.

"Never mind."

Eric put his hands together in front of him. "Our loan department stalled, so I had to talk to management," he began. So he was a front man. "They've decided to hold off and evaluate your position."

Sam felt fairly certain he was hearing something he wasn't supposed to hear, or wasn't intended to, at any rate. He closed his eyes and pretended to keep snoozing, but kept his ears on a swivel.

"Really now?" came Henry's voice. He sounded surprised, but the surprise wore off quickly. "Is this because of Citigroup?"

"They wouldn't say why," said Eric. "I call the woman in charge of this stuff and she says 'we're having a technical issue; please wait, yeah'. And I haven't heard back yet."

"When was this?"

"Before you left America."

"That's odd," said Henry. There was a rustling beside Sam, as if Eric was pulling out his blackberry or something.

Then came an odd noise, maybe from Eric pursing his lips. Then a rustling once more.

"Landsbanki announces substantial losses on asset-backed securities… assures investors of its liquidity. Them too?" That was Henry's voice, and Sam could imagine his uncle adjusting his non-existent glasses, a thing which he liked to do. He really wore contacts.

Sam opened his eyes. Yes, Henry was pretending to adjust a pair of glasses, and Eric was showing him the article on the banker's phone.

The waitress came to their table then, asked, "Would any of you like something to drink?"

"No thanks," said Henry. "I have to make a call."

"Beer," said Eric.

"How much does a hot chocolate cost?" - and that was Sam.

"I'll put it on my tab," said Eric, and then, "But a small one."

"Sure thing," said the waitress. She wrote down the order and moved on.

Henry got up discreetly, walked to the entrance, where the sound of the ringtone wouldn't disturb the customers, and dialed. Presently someone picked up on the other end, and Sam watched with interest, wiggled his ear toward his uncle so he could hear better. There was a trick Henry had taught him.

"Translator… backing… go ahead… Galli… may have to… a lot of… thanks… no problem… bye."

He came back, checked his watch. "My plane is arriving soon."

There was a hint of a frown on his face, and his tone was brusque.

"Is there a problem?" asked Eric.

"No," said Henry. "But when we get to Isafjorour - " and he rattled off the tongue-twisting Icelandic name as if he'd been saying it all his life - "I'll need to contact Kaupthing."

Kaupthing?

"Is there a problem?" asked Eric.

Sam noticed that there might be trouble, sat up, the better to get a view of the action. Well, if not trouble, then something more interesting than loan details and accounting statements and technical issues at Landsbanki's financial department. Here was a hint of something exciting.

"I'm on a time schedule," said Henry, saying everything and nothing again.

"I'll talk to management about it," said Eric. "Here's to hoping it's a technical glitch, yeah?"

"Software issues," said Sam's uncle, though he didn't sound like he agreed. "They'd better call in the IT people."

The waitress came back then, served Eric a beer and Sam his hot chocolate, and Henry sat down and gave them both time to finish their drinks. Then his uncle checked his watch again, said "We'd better be going," and Sam licked the last of his cocoa out of the bottom of his small mug.

"You still paying for it?" he asked Eric, and Eric, perhaps seeing a way to make up to his client, said yes, and would have taken on the whole tab, if Henry hadn't said that he'd pay for it himself, thank you very much.

Then they left the cafe, and Sam was very nearly bowled over by some other banker who wasn't looking where he was going, just before they got to the security station at the airport; the badge under his pen-pocket read 'Glitnir'. The woman at the desk didn't bat an eye at it, though she must have seen it, and so they were checked in fairly quickly – there were no metal detectors, no need to take off your shoes to have them searched – and headed out to the runway for their flight on an ATV, the driver swerving around baggage carts and jumping fuel lines as they went.

"That sign at the gate said 'Welcome, People'," noted Sam, when the trip had finally landed and they were waiting by the side of the airstrip. "Not 'Welcome, Icelanders' or 'Welcome, Travelers', or 'Welcome, Potential Terrorists'."

"It should have said 'Welcome Dragons And People'," said his uncle, not being entirely serious. Then, he might have been.

Sam scrutinized the gate, lit up by the artificial lighting, as the sun had yet to rise, despite it being nine o'clock. "Nah," he said, and added, "The doors aren't big enough to fit them."

"Then it's on the other side," said Henry.

"But that's the international side."

"Foreign investment."

"Pfft," said Sam. "The dragons are all in nature preserves. Say, where's our flight?"

He had a point. There were no aircraft nearby on the tarmac. On the other side of the airport engines roared and jets took off, brand spanking new 737-600s with shining metal and big engines and sleek paint jobs with livery that said 'Icelandic Air', twin-engined planes which promised to be the future and delivered. They had to cost a million bucks. At least. A hundred million. A thousand million. Seven-hundred and thirty-seven billion, plus six-hundred greenbacks, that was it.

And Sam looked and imagined dragons in their place. That American Airlines plane with its red tail and blue cabin paint and white wings was a _Monstrousitus Nightmarus –_ that was what he liked to call them anyway. And that Cessna Citation going the other way was a _Nadderus Spineus –_ but it wasn't. It was faster, and it was newer and cooler, but mostly it was faster, and that was why people didn't use dragons for transport anymore, those that were left.

The terminal heaters hummed and the turbofans whined and the prop planes droned as they taxied about, but among the noise Sam heard a closer droning, louder than the rest.

"Here comes our flight," said Henry. "I got a good pilot for the job."

It was a yellow piper cub, taxiing on the ramps after exiting the hanger, swerving around baggage trains and fuel lines as dangerously as the ATV driver had, only, instead of a four-wheeler, this was an aircraft that weighed half a ton and spun a propeller blade that could make mincemeat of anyone standing too close. Sam half-expected smoke to billow from the exhaust, and parts to drop from the undercarriage. But it was a fine little machine, and the engine purred – at first. The plane rolled up to them on the tarmac, and as it drew closer Sam could see odd things about its construction.

The wings looked longer than they ought to, with struts that didn't look company made, and it had beefier landing gear than he would've expected on such a small plane, along with a large propeller. It rolled up to them and Henry bent down, to avoid banging his head on the yellow metal over him.

"Hop in!" said the pilot, and Sam was surprised enough so that he did, without asking why he was doing it or where he was going. There were two seats in the back of the craft, small and rather uncomfortable, as if the original springs in the frame had been stripped out, an aluminum bench seat put in and styrofoam layered on top with no regard for the ease of the passenger whatsoever.

Sam tossed his baggage into the rear of the plane, looked forward to see a smiling face with a grin that was too big to be settling.

"Nice to meet you," said the pilot. "Ujevna Nott. And your name is?"

She pointed at Sam when she asked the question, perhaps unaware that pointing was rude, or perhaps impolite on purpose.

"Sam," said Sam, and that was that, for though he would've said his last name, she shook her head.

"Kids these days, all getting dyed hair and colored contact lenses."

So she thought he was his uncle's son, and that his strawberry hair was fake. Very impolite indeed.

Sam tried to shift the topic.

"Nice plane," he said. "When was it built?"

"Nineteen-forty, but the way I have it the whole shebang's practically new."

So it was as old as his grandfather. That put it into perspective. But what did she mean by it being practically new?

"And what are those?" asked Sam, pointing to the tubes coming out from each side of the craft's nose, when the pilot had finished talking on the radio in cryptic pilot speak. "Exhausts?"

"And air intakes," said Ujev. "Doesn't come standard, but I put a supercharger on this thing. See, this plane was a J-3F, and it got nice radials, so it wasn't too hard -"

And Sam leaned forward, interested in what she was talking about.

"Anyway, it gets about a hundred more yaks than a normal engine, runs better at altitude and cools better."

Sam had a question. "Yaks?"

"What you Americans would call horsepower, Iceland style."

And Henry leaned in and whispered "Icelanders just use horsepower," in Sam's ear, and he chuckled.

"So it's got about twenty more dragonpower, and that's good," she said.

"What's dragonpower to yakpower?" asked Sam.

"Five yak power, five horsepower," said Ujev, instantly, and she waved her hand. "If it had a hundred more dragonpower I'd be flying a twin-engine jet, or the engine would be so big in front of this thing I'd have to navigate this kaboodle by instrument."

Kaboodle? She was weird; maybe weirder than his uncle, Sam thought.

"I did a whole lot of modifications to this bird," she said, and waved her hands again, this time to the sides of the aircraft. "Extended wings, reinforced by me, to carry extra weight. The Piper's a small aircraft, but I could add a fourth passenger seat if I really wanted. Don't know if the airframe could take it though. And there's a lot of other small things I did, quality of life, you know."

"Does it have a name?"

"My brother calls it Thor," she began, and Sam raised an eyebrow. "I fly in it so often it might as well be Home, or Hang the Expense. Take care of your aircraft when you grow up."

"So I don't crash?" asked Sam.

He felt like he was forgetting something.

"So you can pull awesome stunts, that's why!" said the pilot, and she laughed.

Sam peered out the window, saw a big jet land, then taxi onto its ramp. Business class, he thought. At least it looked nice.

Ujev pressed a button on the stick, which looked rather new for a plane built in the forties. Maybe it was one of her additions. She listened through her headphones, then spoke.

"Nott One holding position on ramp, comma, requesting permission for takeoff run, over."

Sam couldn't hear the response well from the back seat, but there was one, electronic-sounding because of the way the radio worked.

"Takeoff run is seven, six, comma, load is five, seven, zero, kilos, over."

Another pause, a longer one this time.

"Roger that."

She leaned back. "Private jet's already lining up for a landing on this airstrip. New-fangled planes stealing all of my business." She waved her hand again, this time at the little speck Sam could just see coming towards the runway.

"Private jets have been around for a while," said Henry.

"What with the boom-tunes going on and the krona making a hockey stick chart, a lot of pilots are getting fancy Citations and P-series and Beechcraft and that jazz nowaday. Our currency is going up so much any old fisherman can buy some other country's junk and borrow against that with his krona, pocket the difference and buy his own twin-engine, bankrolled by Kaupthing one hundred percent. You can get paid to borrow money in this country. Isn't that something?"

Henry looked like he already knew that, Sam thought, looking at his uncle, but as for him, the sleep had gone out of his bones. Even he understood that you had to pay money to borrow money, in any sane nation. Or maybe Icelanders had just lucked into a fantastic trade and were too ecstatic to keep it secret.

"I think it's a bad idea to get all this stuff on debt," said Ujev, looking out the window at the approaching plane. "Feels like the banks could go bust at any minute."

"What are you doing against that?"

"What I've always been doing; flying contracts, paying bills. My brother's buying guns and gold."

"I see," said Henry. "Hunting or?"

"Explosives too," said Ujev, offhandedly.

Sam wanted to meet this guy.

The plane went past in a roar, engines at maximum reverse thrust, flared, touched down, bounced, touched down again, slowed, and braked on the tarmac. It taxied down to the ramp and turned off the runway.

Ujev pressed the button on the stick again, and Sam leaned forward to catch what the traffic controller said to her.

"Nott One to tower control, comma, requesting permission for takeoff, over."

"Tower control to Nott One, query: request info on short run, over."

"I'm running a supercharger on this baby, over."

There was a long pause from the other end of the line. When the controller came back on he sounded surprised.

"Tower control to Nott One. Oh, comma. Nott One, permission granted."

"Roger that tower control," said Ujev. She revved the engine and taxied onto the runway.

"What was that about?" asked Sam.

"They were just surprised because I told them this plane could take off in less than three hundred feet."

"That's shorter than a hundred meter dash," said Sam. "… Nice."

The pilot released the brakes and the plane rolled forward, then turned onto the runway with a flourish, nose aligned perfectly with the stripes on the asphalt. Then she pushed in the throttle, the engine roared and the plane jumped forward, the force of the engine pulling the fore of the craft almost into the ground. There was a drumming sound of cylinders firing, the sudden wind rising in tone until it resembled a howl, then cutting off abruptly as they passed the sixty mark on Ujevna's dash.

Then she pulled back on the stick and the engine cowling rose above the horizon, the ground at their sides falling out from under them. Sam felt like he was floating and riding a motorbike all at once, and the motorbike was running over potholes.

The pilot yelled something to the back seat, something which might've been 'This is awesome!'. But Sam couldn't tell, and the plane kept climbing at a furious pace, halfway between pointing straight up and straight ahead, though his stomach kept telling him it was straight down, before it changed its tune and felt like it had been crushed into his spine, along with the rest of his organs.

Ujevna pressed the red radio button, talked into the mike, though whatever she said was ripped away by the roar of the engine before it got to Sam's ears.

It was different from a commercial takeoff, for sure, where the engines whined and the plane bucked slightly, and the only sensation he had telling him when he was in the air was when the wings rose and he was lightly pressed into the bottom of his seat instead of the back. This was nothing like a commercial takeoff.

He could see the pilot, for one, wearing a rambunctious grin, perhaps at the mortified face she could see in the mirror. And that face, Sam realized, was his.

And as the plane roared towards an uncertain future, Sam figured out what had eluded him.

"Uncle?" he asked, "Where are we going?"

* * *

 **AN:**

 **The first installment in a new series, ladies and gentlemen.** **I completely plotted out this story** **beforehand, and several chapters have been prewritten before publishing, which means Modern Friendships should receive consistent updates from now** **on. Updates to be posted bi-montly (if possible).**

 **The review box is right down below – tell me your thoughts! Feedback has helped** **me in the past and it will help me again, and that helps you guys since I get to know what you'd like to see.** **Do consider giving me your ideas, a follow and a favorite – Blackberry Avar.**

 **Published on Fanfiction Sunday March 1st, 2020.**


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